The Court Record (Ace Attorney Drabble Collection)
by ADryMartini
Summary: A collection of drabbles written for the Phoenix Wright Kink Meme.
1. Can't Take My Eyes Off You

**Can't Take My Eyes Off You**

 _Author's Notes:_ Written for the Phoenix Wright Kink Meme. The prompt involved the Ace Attorney characters and a disco. I'd listened to Can't Take My Eyes Off You the day before, so when I saw the prompt I just couldn't resist. It also fits in very nicely with my head-canon that Phoenix enjoys disco music quite a bit. For the lovely Ropo.

* * *

Edgeworth sighed and held his head in his hand.

He still couldn't believe that Wright had coaxed him into spending their Saturday night at a dingy nightclub. The entire place smelt of mothballs and oily fast food, and, the decor clearly hadn't been changed in the past forty years. It was an eyesore, to say the least.

And, to make matters completely and utterly worse, Wright was parading around him and chanting the lyrics to the song playing over the speakers.

Edgeworth reclined further into the red vinyl sofa propped up on the far side of the room, silently praying for this nightmarish song to end so that Wright could stop his foolish charade.

"You're just too good to be true. Can't take my eyes off of you," Phoenix sang, flailing his arms about in what was an embarrassing attempt at dancing.

Edgeworth glanced around hastily to make sure nobody else was watching. "Wright," he hissed, bristling.

But Phoenix pressed on, grabbing Edgeworth's hand dramatically and kneeling. "Pardon the way that I stare. There's nothing else to compare!" He pressed a kiss to Edgeworth's hand. "The thought of you leaves me weak. There are no words left to speak."

Edgeworth rolled his eyes as Wright held a hand to his forehead, feigning distress. "At long last love has arrived, and I thank god I'm alive, you're just too good to be true. Can't take my eyes off you."

As the musical interlude of the Four Seasons song piped in, Phoenix tugged at Edgeworth's hand, drawing the prosecutor immediately — and messily — to his feet.

"Phoenix!" Edgeworth pulled back in shock, but Phoenix drew him over to the dance floor as the song soared.

"I love you, Edgeworth!" he exclaimed, doing his best to hit the high notes of the song.

 _Oh god._

"And if it's quite alright, I need you, Edgeworth, to warm a lonely night, I love you, Edgeworth, trust in me when I say…"

With a final huff of irritation, Edgeworth yanked his hand out of Phoenix's grasp and strode off the dance floor. Phoenix paused, watching Edgeworth storm off, and then continued his exaggerated serenade to nobody in particular.

"Oh pretty Edgeworth, 'don't bring me down,' I pray, oh pretty Edgeworth, now that I've found you, stay!" He called out, shooting a bright smile at his boyfriend. "And let me love you, Edgeworth, let me love you!"


	2. Marked Foil

**Marked Foil**

 _Author's Notes:_ Written for the Phoenix Wright Kink Meme. The prompter asked for a character to come out to their family by writing, "I'm gay", on an Easter egg. Whilst I head-canon that Phoenix is bisexual, the words aren't explicitly stated in the story so interpret it as you may. For the wonderful Brighty124.

* * *

"Phoenix!"

He's still sitting on his bed, hugging his knees to his chest and facing the wall. He doesn't want to go downstairs, but they're calling him. They know, now. There's no going back.

His mind is a flurry of thoughts, what to say, how they're reacting. Maybe they think it's a mistake. A factory mix-up. An error.

The only error was writing those two words, he decides, as he slowly creeps from his bedroom. His feet shuffle on the floor, a scratching noise made as the carpet slides under his furry socks. He's happy to take all day - he doesn't, doesn't, _doesn't_ want to face them - but he knows he'll end up in the kitchen anyway, and will have to confront them sometime.

He can't hide from them now, not after mustering the courage to write up those words on the egg, the black marker's ink glossing on the foil as the words were written. It seemed like such a good idea then, he would tell them without having to actually _tell_ them, and when all was said and done the chocolate could be eaten, the day then enjoyed.

Wide eyes, nervous sentences. That's what he's expecting, at best. He doesn't want to expect, nor even _think_ about the worst.

He enters the kitchen. His mother and father stand near the counter, the foiled egg in hand. They look up at their son as he stands awkwardly opposite them. Phoenix looks at the floor, suddenly finding the wooden boards to be the most fascinating thing in the world.

He's an idiot, he's an idiot, and oh god, what will they say, how are they reacting, he wants to know but he's afraid to know; caught in an uncomfortable limbo between the two opposites, unable to pick a side...

"Phoenix…" His mother is the first to speak, her soft voice reassuring, gentle. Snaps him out of his thoughts. "Phoenix, did you write this?" She tilts the egg to face him, the black ink dark and foreboding.

He still doesn't meet her eyes. God, he wishes he never wrote that, now. How can two words be so stressful, so painful to communicate?

But he nods, slowly. His breath hitches, all the words he wants to say lie on his tongue, ready to spill out.

"I…" He falters. What can he say? Where should he begin?

His eyes dart back and forth as he finds his words. "I thought you deserved to know," he whispers. "I thought it was important that you knew. I hope that's— that you're okay with it."

He doesn't see it, but his mother's lips slowly curl into an understanding smile. She glances at his father, sees the veins of his hand thrumming with quickened pulse. He refuses to look at either of them.

Phoenix is swiftly captured in his mother's arms. She's as warm and gentle to him as she was the day he was born, when she rocked him in her arms and cooed to him. She had always wondered what sort of girl he would marry, how many children he would have, what career he'd follow. Certainly now, she begins to reconstruct her image of her son and his future, but she doesn't mind, as long as her child is ultimately happy. And to her, he will always be her precious child, no matter his preferences, decisions and achievements. She will always love him.

Phoenix smiles as his mother whispers, "It's okay, Phoenix. Thank you for telling me," and squeezes him tight. He looks at his father, still standing away from them.

A part of him understands that his father isn't ready for this yet, and perhaps he never will be. But Phoenix kindles the fire of hope in his heart that one day his father will accept this, will accept _him_. Because he's still the same Phoenix he was the day before, a week ago, a year ago. He hopes his father will understand that.

Give it time, Phoenix tells himself. He came out, _finally_ , and it's a step in the right direction.


	3. The Happiest of Days

**The Happiest of Days**

 _Author's Notes:_ This story is dedicated to the awesome cogfondler. I hope you have a fantastic birthday!

* * *

Blackquill wasn't fond of admitting when he was angry.

He was the type who preferred to hide his pains behind a sarcastic smirk and act as though there was nothing bothering him. It was no secret that his life was a rollercoaster — when times seemed to brighten for him they almost immediately plummeted back down into fear. Over time, he'd simply learnt to deal with his anger by keeping it to himself. There was no point in sharing his troubles with others if they weren't going to help him.

There was Taka, of course. Taka was faithful to him, there was no denying that, but Blackquill often craved real human responses to his venting. Squawks and caws were little comfort, although they were comfort nonetheless.

When he did explain his woes to his faithful bird, he had to keep his voice low, something that took him a very long time to become accustomed to. Sound had a way of travelling in the prison, he knew that from experience. And, he reasoned, if he didn't enjoy the elongated yells of a certain lawyer's name from the cell at the end of the block, the other inmates probably wouldn't appreciate his venting in its full capacity.

He sighed.

Prison was a cold and empty place.

Today, he had never been more certain of that.

At first he hated himself for even daring to think that he deserved more than what he was getting. Of course, the inmates weren't going to stand outside his cell and sing happy birthday to him, but his day had been so empty that his mind was willing to conjure up even the most outlandish of ideas just to keep him from breaking.

In the morning, he'd expected his sister to drop by. She didn't. _Either she's forgotten or she didn't want to be seen in a place like this_ , Blackquill thought, as he blankly fed a morsel of bread to his bird. He hoped it it was the former.

And the others, where were they?

Probably outside, enjoying the day and living the wonders of freedom. By Gourd Lake, having a picnic, or at a local cafe, eating lunch.

He envied their freedom. The shackles around his wrists had never felt so painful, so uncomfortable. The heavy chains weighed him down, much like the fetters of misery that restrained his heart.

He didn't belong here.

He hated telling himself that he _knew_ that was the truth, but obviously, nobody else did — and he had to hold onto that knowledge if he wanted to retain even a smidgen of self-worth.

He leaned into his open hands, covering his eyes and sighing to himself. Perhaps if he gave up on whatever hopes that remained he could put this nightmare of a day to rest. It would only be a few hours more, he told himself.

 _And you should stop moping_ , he thought. _Nobody cares_.

"Prosecutor Blackquill!"

Simon looked up to hear the rattling of metal from the other side of the small jail cell door. He expected to see the cell warden, and was confused to see the white suit and golden hair of Detective Fulbright on the other side, calico bag in hand.

 _What is he doing here_?

"I've gotten you special permission to go outside for a bit," he explained, as he grabbed the chains of the prosecutor's shackles and led him down the corridor.

Blackquill didn't even bother asking exactly how the good detective had obtained that permission, and a part of him almost wished that Fulbright hadn't. He avoided eye contact with the other inmates as they glared and cursed at him. He'd have to be extra-vigilant in avoiding them the next time they were sent to the prison cafeteria, he realised.

Though shielded and cordoned off from the rest of the city, the outdoor area of the prison was a welcome change from the dark inside of the cellblock. He fought to stop a smile from creeping onto his face — it simply wouldn't do for the good detective to see that — and sat down on one of the benches, Taka on his shoulder.

He cleared his throat. "What is it you wanted?" he asked, staring straight ahead.

The detective beamed. "I brought you something!" he exclaimed. Blackquill raised an eyebrow, but his questions were soon answered as Fulbright took a paper box out of the canvas bag and handed it to him. "Someone told me today was your birthday. So I made this for you!" He chuckled heartily.

Blackquill side-eyed the detective for a moment, before placing the box onto his lap and unfolding the paper tab at the top.

He didn't know what he expected the small box to hold, but it most certainly wasn't this. He blinked once, twice, staring at the triangular slice of chocolate cake that lay inside.

Fulbright let out a loud ha ha ha! as Blackquill remained silent, looking fixedly at the box of cake in his hands. "I hope you like chocolate, Prosecutor Blackquill!" the detective said, with a grin. "I made it myself!"

The prosecutor's shoulders shook as he emitted a low chuckle. "Fool Bright… you…" He glanced up at the detective, and their gazes caught. Blackquill was taken aback completely at the gesture, Fulbright could tell. Those dark eyes hidden by his unruly fringe were bright and surprised, but they didn't push him away.

Fulbright cleared his throat, embarrassed. "Anyway, happy birthday!" he said. The sunlight reflected off his aviators as he pushed them up his nose.

Blackquill smirked. "I… Yes." He took the feather out of his mouth and carefully tucked it into his pocket, and then, looking at the detective, he coughed out a question.

"Huh?"

The prosecutor felt his face turn red. "I asked if you wanted to have some, too."

Fulbright's mouth opened a little with surprise, eyes widening from behind the orange lens of his glasses. "Of course!" he decided, beaming widely.

Only now did the prosecutor let a small smile grace his lips. "Then it's settled, Fool Bright," he added, a little teasingly, as he split the cake into two pieces with the fork. He took the napkin and handed one piece to Fulbright, then cut into his own slice.

A silence settled between them as they ate; companionable, peaceful. Blackquill was grateful for it. The cellblock was always loud and rowdy, so it was rare for him to have a moment or so in quiet.

"…Thank you. It was very thoughtful of you," Blackquill murmured, as he finished up his last mouthful of cake and shut the box.

Fulbright smiled. "I'm glad you liked it!" He flicked a few crumbs off his chin. "But, we ought to get you back," he said, almost regretfully. "Come on."

Blackquill nodded. And, after Fulbright had taken him back to his cell and left for the day, he realised that for once, the cell didn't feel as empty and cold as usual.


	4. Another Brick in the Wall

**Another Brick in the Wall**

 _Author's Notes:_ A short, Phoenix-centric drabble, as he seems to serve as my muse nowadays. Purely venting in the form of writing.

* * *

It had been a long day.

Phoenix sighed as he put his briefcase down by the door, stripping off his white raincoat and hanging it on the coatrack immediately afterwards. He caught his reflection in the mirror, unsurprised to see that his eyes were still red.

 _So that's what Maya had noticed_ , he thought to himself.

He didn't care that she'd seen the telling signs; in a way, he was almost glad to have the attention. Nowadays, it was as though nobody really saw _him_ , the man underneath those layers of blue: _Phoenix_ , not just the lawyer, but a _person_ , as well, just like everyone else.

He drifted to his small kitchenette, put the kettle on. If Edgeworth was here, he probably would have been pleased to see that Phoenix was making himself tea, instead of his usual cappuccino. But that wasn't what this was about. Coffee didn't help when he was feeling like this — his best bet was a cup of chamomile, followed by a warm blanket, a comfort film, and a night of undisturbed sleep.

And, since when had the apartment become so chilly? Phoenix padded over to the thermostat, winding it up a few notches. The cold never felt good, not when he was in this state.

The kettle's unmistakably shrill whistle was silenced almost as soon as it started, as Phoenix hastily switched the stovetop off. He reached for the handle, forgetting that it was metal, like the rest of the appliance, and felt a sudden searing heat on his fingertips. He pulled his hand away with a loud yell. God, it _hurt_ ; he rushed to the sink and let the cold water run over his hand, please, let the pain _stop_ , exactly what had he done to deserve this, on top of everything else?

He cried for the second time that day.

It must have been the pain from the burn, he hadn't felt all that sad when he'd arrived home — okay, he had, but- but he had felt better compared to earlier this afternoon, hadn't he? — and it was like a floodgate had opened; the tears just wouldn't stop now that they'd started.

There was no-one here. No words whispered in his ear, telling him he would be alright, that things would get better soon.

No-one.

His apartment was the loneliest place he knew; little comfort after slow, seemingly endless office hours, to return to such an empty home, far, far away from people who cared, if such people even _existed_.

Phoenix leaned his arm on the countertop, crying into his open palm. He was alone. He was always alone. Nobody was going to appear out of nowhere to make him feel happier. He was going to trudge to bed tonight, and probably cry himself to sleep for the umpteenth time this week. He'd wake up with dry eyes and a stuffy nose, but would be too unwilling to take a day off.

He was tired of waiting for calls that would never come, letters that were never written, conversations that would never transpire.

Phoenix wiped at his teary eyes and went back to the kettle, making sure to grab a dishcloth to protect his hand from the heat of the handle.

 _Stop crying._

Tea, blanket, movie, sleep.

 _Please stop crying._

Start cycle, end cycle, repeat.


End file.
